What we rolled lacked substance:
a pie crust animals would scavenge
away from. Under the kitchen, tunnels

crowd like royalty. Little noses

press and snarl. I got a thorn on my
thumb. I brushed a diamond from my
eye. Just another day at the bakery,

you said. Was that a hawk or plain

paper on the stuck window? One pool
became a backyard ducks flew in.
The garden suffered. The mother tied

a plastic wrapping to her hair.

Was it always wet? Were we always
backing out of a blind drive? When
you get home, save me a slice.

Posterity. I promised somebody.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sarah Green is a poet and singer-songwriter in Somerville, MA. Recent poems of hers appear or are forthcoming in FIELD, Cortland Review, and H-ngm-n. Her book “Signs For Come Here” was a finalist for the 2008 Walt Whitman Award. Her poetry has won a Pushcart Prize.